The lost tale of fatty bolger
by cloudwatching
Summary: Well i think the title says it all really. Very pompous account from the hobbit's mouth about the start of Frodo's journey.


--A/N Just a quick one shot. Five hobbits went to the gate of the Old Forest, but only four went in, and I think the fifth one deserves a little recognition, though perhaps not as much as he himself thinks he deserves. Enjoy this recently discovered appendix, revealed for the first time.

edit; corrections...erm...corrected. Thanks to Inkling3 and Lorendiac for the helpful comments.

---And how could this author own LOTR when he's in it? I ask you.

I am the one you never hear about. I was forgotten, relegated to the obscure chapters at the beginning of the Red Book, a mere courtesy mention or two. But let me tell you. I deserve more than just a mention I deserve a whole new book. I am the forgotten hobbit, the fifth Halfling, I am Fatty Bolger.

My first mention in the book of the esteemed hobbit whom I was once proud to call a friend is a familial; merely a name in the midst of others, squashed between Burrowses and Bracegirdles, and believe me, when you're squashed between two clans of such wide-standing, there's very little room for self expression, more self _com_pression. It was admittedly a good party, though with less mushrooms than I perhaps would have liked, and rather too much mystery when old Mr Bilbo disappeared from his own party so suddenly. Fireworks are all very well but a vanishing; now that's just not natural.

Anyway, after the party I was left in rather good stead for the future. I was well enough off, even if Bilbo did leave me only a set of empty dinner plates, with the message "Something you seem so fond of". Of course, that is not mentioned in the red book, only the disgrace of my second cousin three times removed who happened to be having a quiet innocent perusal of the walls in the lower cellars with a couple of Boffins just in case there was a sliver of gold about the place that wasn't wanted by anybody else at present. Hardly a reprehensible impulse, but oh no, there's no justice when you're not a _hero_.

Finally, _finally _I am mentioned at the beginning of the second chapter. Hardly a dignified entrance either; I am mentioned purely as a "younger hobbit who had as children been fond of Bilbo and in and out of Bag End.", though he at least acknowledges my full name; Fredegar Bolger. I am of course cast into shadow by Merry and Pippin, but then, they are _heroes_, as they tell the story. Knights of far off country's now, they say, but I don't know how much of their tales you can believe, after all, they didn't bring any of their fine friends back with them to free us lot in the Shire from old sharkey did they? They had to make do with old Cotton and his sons as the cavalry. Mind you, it was pretty good to get rid of him, however they did it.

The years before they left were the golden years, when it snowed food and rained drink, as we say hereabouts, especially at the birthday parties. Whatever people say about the oddity of continuing having parties for him after it was almost certain old mister Bilbo was dead, I say it's just jealousy. The select few who were invited found it an extremely acceptable way to mourn an old hobbit, who had lived life to the full, by eating to the full and drinking even further. It's only right, after all to have respect for the departed, even those who leave rather more suddenly and unconventionally than others. That happiness continued for twenty seven years, and all of us four, Frodo, Merry, Pippin, myself and sometimes Sam, Frodo's gardener, the closest set of hobbits you ever did see were well past our comings of age, and indeed Frodo was nearly fifty years when old Gandalf came back. He should have been settling down, starting a family with a nice lass that could cook well and wasn't too bad looking, but no, he barely looked older than the day Bilbo left, and there was a small part of me that thought perhaps it wasn't such a fair world, what with him having the big house and the gold left over from Bilbo's trip with the mountain folk, (which he might deny even to his nearest and dearest friends, but we all knew was in Bag End somewhere) and now not a grey hair on his head, not a wrinkle!

When Gandalf did come back, after all those years, Mister Frodo seemed to get a bit het up, you might say; went tramping around the fields muttering to himself. There were many that shut their doors to him, thought him a bit cracked, mentioning no names, but Ted Sandyman for one. Merry and Pippin sometimes followed him, quietly like, on these little jaunts and they dragged me out a couple of times, but it was a becoming hazardous as the years went on, for often dwarves would come and Mister Frodo would stop and talk with them for hours, which meant a missed meal for whoever was following him. I didn't want to risk losing my fine figure, and they do say as too much fresh air is bad for your health, so I do reckon I was better off back in Hobbiton, looking after Bag End and stopping those Sackville-Bagginses from poking their noses in to Frodo's affairs.

Then what thanks do I get? After all those years of vigilantly blocking Lobelia from Frodo's door, he opens it up to them and what's more, sells the whole place to them! He said he was taking himself off to Buckland, back where his mother's relations lived, and he and Merry were trying to find him a nice little hole, or perhaps a house to settle down into. Many people thought he had run out of the dragon's gold but personally, I thought Merry and Pippin had carefully steered him towards the choice of Buckland, away from the hustle and Bustle of Hobbiton, probably because they thought he could do with some peace and quiet, a nice rest, to stop him from wandering all the over the shire on his own and meeting strange folk, friends of Gandalf, who was actually staying in Bag End that summer. Not ostentatiously, without fireworks, but there was definitely a wizard in that house and everybody knew it. The general opinion was that a move by strange Mister Frodo Baggins would be a good thing for everybody, even if the poor inhabitants of Hobbiton would have to suffer from the tongue of Lobelia in his place.

We planned to leave after Mister Frodo's birthday, and of course the customary joint birthday party. Merry and I were to leave the following day with the remainder of the luggage that had not gone on the two early carts, and we would prepare the house for the other three who were, rather foolishly in my opinion, planning to walk down to Buckland. As we were to travel the next day, I of course limited myself at the celebratory dinner, and consumed only four slices of meat pie, two chicken legs, a hunk of cheese and a half loaf, with three small slices of the obligatory birthday cake to follow, washed down with half a bottle of the good old Winyards, which Frodo was determined not to let Lobelia apprehend. Barely a snack in fact, but the mood was cheery, and a little music was provided by Pippin and Merry, on the fiddle and the pipes so it was not a total waste of an evening, despite Frodo's long face and solemn words about leaving his hobbit hole.

The journey down to Buckland was very pleasant, though we of course had to make do with traveller's fare; bread, cheese, cold meat, fruit and the like but we managed well enough. We arrived several days before the others and had to work hard to make the little house comfortable. That work was never acknowledged though, nowhere in the red book as they so grandly call it do you see any mention, not a single comment, no "Fredegar Bolger, the devoted hard working self sacrificing friend of Frodo Baggins laboured hard at preparing the new house for his arrival", no nothing. The end result is mentioned, but it might as well have been done by fairies, for there is no mention of the hours of sweat and drudgery that went into it. Not that I am desirous of attention, no not at all, but it would be pleasing to know that generations of Future Bolgers will look at the account of their ancestor, and know him as someone other than 'Fatty'.

Naturally, I am glad that my friends arrived safely, so that five of us were sitting around the table, but I do think they could have been a little more generous in sharing out the mushrooms than they were. I barely got a plateful to myself, and it is a well known fact that under nourishment can make a person very ill. I sometimes wonder if I am the only one concerned with my health among my fellows. You have to be careful with a person who has such a weak constitution as I have. Therefore, I feel it most unjust that the implication about that dinner is one of avarice and gluttony. The word 'even' implies that I am greedy beyond my rights, which is of course untrue, and although they say one picture is worth a thousand words, that one word conjures up rather a sizable picture, a robust portrait as it were, when you wouldn't believe the trouble, the hardship I went through for the very hobbit who so slandered me.

My self sacrificing nature became evident very soon, when after dinner we revealed that we had known all along of Frodo's intention to leave the shire all together, to dispose of some trinket or other, and though I protested against his going, I finally agreed to remain behind rather than seeking honour and glory (and probably wet feet or something equally nasty). I put aside my hopes of world renown and seeing far places to protect Frodo's cloak of secrecy that he wished to cast over the entire expedition. I wasn't quite sure why this was- something to do with a dark stranger on the road – but I was willing to make it seem that he was still in the house over the next few weeks, keeping the fire going and the kettle on as it were. Malicious persons may at this point assume I was afraid of the evident perils of the journey, and indeed a certain Meriadoc Brandybuck was moved to explain to the other travellers, so I have been led to believe, that a fear was instilled in me by my nanny, whom I haven't seen hair or hide of for at least the length of time since I left Hobbiton. No, indeed I was not scared one little bit, and would have followed Frodo into the old forest with fortitude if it had been required of me, even though there really seemed no necessity for such a dark and secretive path, but I felt it my duty to exclude myself from their happy band, for Frodo's good.

However, I did not know at that moment what perils would befall me in that little village of Crickhollow, and if the others had known what was to come perhaps they would not have been so happy to leave me behind as they did. Sheer abandonment, some people might call it. For not much time had passed before I was awoken in the night. There was a bitter whistle in the wind, and it seemed as though the window panes would be blown in by the gusts. In fact, I though it was the storm that had blown open the door, and made it crash against the entrance way wall, but when I heard the iron footsteps on the tiles of the porch, I knew immediately that this was not natural phenomenon. Indeed I confess I felt a little shiver run down my spine, but of course I was not _afraid_, oh no, not I. It was perhaps the extreme cold that caused me to tremble, and I quickly pulled on my dressing gown as I heard the feet mounting the stairs. I was not a fool, and did not try to make a quasi heroic stand; I gathered up the bread and cheese that lay on the table from last night and ran out of the back door, for I was in the kitchen, rather than the bedroom upstairs, having taken my guarding duties very seriously and eaten enough food for two hobbits, so the locals did not suspect Frodo was not here when I bought only enough supplies for my own meagre appetite. Anyway, this clever ploy of mine proved to be my saving, for I have no doubt that the owner of those footsteps would not have halted at doing serious bodily harm to any hobbit they found in their way, even if I explained that I wasn't Frodo Baggins.

My feet took me for many a mile over the moonlit countryside, and it seemed that there were voices on the wind that night, for everywhere I went I seemed to hear the shrieking of horses and the clatter of hooves. Eventually, I found my way to a friendly hobbit hole, the residence of the Brandybuck patriarch, and begged shelter for the night, which they gladly gave me, and I was made much of, as I hesitatingly add, was no less than my due for what I had endured. Throughout my recovery from these traumatic affairs I did not mention Frodo's ring at all, and only let on that Frodo and the others had set out for Bree, for I was among friends and could, I felt divulge that much without endangering my friends in any way.

Despite the relatively safe ending for me after my fearsome adventure, and the short year or so of complete peace in the shire afterwards, I still believe that too much stress is applied to the word hero, when many equally deserving people go unremarked and uncelebrated, which is why I have decided to add this further appendix to the red book of Bilbo and Frodo, and perhaps, one day, I shall write of my brave and courageous stand against the dreaded wizard Sharkey and his destruction of the Shire.

--Well there it is. Maybe the second part will be found some day, but probably not very soon unless encouragement comes along…in the form of reviews preferably, not mushrooms.


End file.
